


What's a Heartbeat without Heartache?

by You_Light_The_Sky



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst, Asexual Sexbots, Existential Crisis?, M/M, No Graphic Descriptions of Sex, Past (but not described) non con, Suicidal Thoughts, Yes you read that right
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-12
Updated: 2015-11-12
Packaged: 2018-05-01 06:37:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,229
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5195864
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/You_Light_The_Sky/pseuds/You_Light_The_Sky
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John goes from warbot who can't kill to sexbot who doesn't enjoy sex.</p>
            </blockquote>





	What's a Heartbeat without Heartache?

**Author's Note:**

> Once i got an anon request asking for Johnlock as friends with benefits. Now, I don't normally write sex but I wanted to try this (without writing graphic sex) in a creative way... and what started out as crack fic turned into this monstrosity. I am so sorry.
> 
> Warnings: ooc characters probably.
> 
> EDIT: also the title is from the song "Moon Without the Stars" in the awesome game Deemo (play itttttt)

They wake in bed together. Naked. That’s awkward. John just sort of stares at the ceiling for a bit, wondering how this is his life while Sherlock only stands up. He puts on his clothes methodically and hands John a jumper. They don’t talk about it. They never do.

Maybe that’s why it’s awkward.

Then again, they’re both supposed to be sexbots. Sort of. Robots aren’t really programmed to engage in sexual relations with other robots either. Something about being unsexy unless the Owner orders it. John doesn’t really know the exact phrasing, his programming has been a bit scattered since his software has been changed from a warbot to sexbot (with all his battle files hidden in the deepest parts of his programming, refusing to be erased.) Sentence amended: robots aren’t really supposed to be having sexual relations with other robots outside of their orders.

It would… frighten (?) the humans.

John blinks when something hits him in the face. His trousers. He blinks at them.

“Well? Put them on. _You’re_ the one who insists that we must follow human etiquette and wear _clothes_ ,” Sherlock scowls, arms crossed.

He’s beautiful in the morning light. The electric blue of his eyes, the smooth fibers of his skin. His hard drive may have a human appearance but John finds the reminders of Sherlock’s artificiality just as stunning.

“Ah yes. Well, they’re comfy,” John smiles.

“You’re an artificial intelligence. You can’t _feel_ them. What you feel are merely electric impulses triggered by the sensors underneath your skin. As a pleasure model, you are particularly sensitive to—”

“Yes, thank you,” John says loudly, looking around for his socks, “I know you’re itching to say _sexual stimuli_ just to get a rise out of me. But I _do_ know what I’m programmed for now.”

Sherlock sniffs. He doesn’t say that John hardly acts like a sexbot since John avoids talking about sexual acts all together. Most sexbots feel excited or stimulated as soon as they hear any sexual innuendo or reference. But not John. John remembers feeling numb and nothing as he used to shoot humans that were designated the enemy. He remembers seeing a small human ( _a child, call them what they_ are _, children!_ ) in his line of fire and his trigger response lagging for the first time but he shot anyways and then designated enemies looked like designated allies and malfunction, malfunction, malfunction—

…John doesn’t feel anything during sex. Tingling sensations maybe? But they aren’t enjoyable to him. They’re mundane and necessary like eating food or urinating is for humans. Because of his new programming, John _has_ to have sexual relations or his software will break down. It’s very inconvenient but humans must find some pleasure in creating a being that has to live on sexual liquids. A numb part of him accepts this as humanity’s will while the (malfunction, malfunction, malfunction) glitching part of him, that no human should ever know about, whispers that this is cruelty.

“Hurry along, John, a murder’s been reported on the net about 2.418 seconds ago. If we hurry, we’ll get there before _Inspector Lestrade_ has time to contaminate the crime scene with his _breathing_ ,” Sherlock rushes out, acting more human than any human that John’s met.

Then again, Sherlock’s software is all human consciousness and soul. Only his hardware is artificial, as a sexbot for whatever cruel reason (John suspects perhaps it is Mycroft’s cruel joke and he has reason to write up more ‘danger’ files in his inventory about Mycroft Holmes.)

John’s the one who acts. John’s the one who wonders if he’s only his programming and nothing else at all.

(Is it possible to love when you’re nothing but electric impulses run on repeat?)

-

They met in the repair facility.

John had malfunctioned in the field at least ten times. He always prioritized life and his trigger function stopped working completely. His owners decided that John put too many missions in jeopardy and so they decided to ‘recycle’ his software. Wipe him. Let him be converted to another function. Sexbot.

He doesn’t malfunction for his new owners but he doesn’t make them happy either. They don’t like his distant eyes, how tired he looks. Odd, for humans to described him as ‘tired’ when they insist that robots cannot be. Isn’t that what they built robots for? To be proficient in activities that other humans are too ‘tired’ to do? John doesn’t understand.

Nevertheless, John was a regular visitor to the repair facility. He always had programmers digging in his software, trying to puzzle out what bugs were present in him. There were none and his programmers would shrug and mutter something about picky sex addicts and send him to the next new owner.

He was on his seventeenth trip to the repair facility when he saw Sherlock dragged in by several men in suits led by another man holding an umbrella.

“A serial killer is escaping this very moment the longer you keep me here in this… this _prison_!” Sherlock had shouted at all who would listen. A few humans looked up but when they saw the electric blue in Sherlock’s eyes, they shrugged and ignored him, thinking him another broken robot.

“Unlike _you_ , dear brother, your serial killer has a flesh and blood body that doesn’t deteriorate as quickly as _your_ new body does when you neglect it for over forty-eight hours. Now, will I have to find you a willing partner or will you drink the newly updated fuel I’ve had my associates brew for you?” Mycroft had asked, unfazed by Sherlock’s actions.

Sherlock, eloquently, had waved Mycroft off with the middle finger, somehow making the obscene action elegant and dramatic at once.

John couldn’t help but laugh at the time while his programmer is fiddling with his leg, trying to fix the ‘limp’ that sometimes sporadically appears when he walks.

Immediately the two Holmes brothers had whipped their heads towards John and studied him intensely.

“Sorry, sorry,” John had said, though his electric impulses pinged nothing but excitement. “Didn’t mean to laugh.”

Sherlock had narrowed his eyes. “Your emotional programming is quite lifelike. Normally I would say that you’re another human consciousness implanted into a mechanical body like myself but you’re not, are you? But why…?”

He had turned immediately to the nearest repair associate and pointed to John, saying, “I want him. How much to purchase his freedom?”

The repair associates were left spluttering in shock. “Oh. Um. He’s not a very new model, are you sure you don’t want the newer Wilkes prototypes or…?”

“Don’t be stupid. I pointed at that one and I want _him_. A classic Watson model. And I want his programming to be untampered. Leave as is.”

“Hey wait,” John had interjected, the glitches in his system sparking contradictions. “Don’t I get a say in this? What if I don’t want to go with you?”

Sherlock’s eyes had lit up in delight instead of frowning at the malfunction like so many other precious owners. “You’ve been reprogrammed for the function of sexbot but that doesn’t suit you. Why not come work with me and put your old skills to use? I suspect a bit more of your war programs have remained in your system,” Sherlock ignored the programmer’s shouts of protest, “and besides… we can help each other sate our… unique needs.”

John had paused. Wondering. He’d never been given a choice before and now that an opportunity presented itself, John wasn’t sure what to do. His programming told him to please his new owner despite the pings of _error error, other sexbots cannot own sexbots_ and say ‘yes.’ But John didn’t want to assist Sherlock with any sexual activities ( _robots cannot want_ ). He wanted to be left alone and bury himself in his glitches until he went dark like all damaged models.

But Sherlock looked at John like he was something shiny and interesting and _valuable_ to own and John had never felt that way before and he found himself holding out his hand and staring at said-hand, wondering why he was imitating human behavior.

Sherlock, though, had taken John’s hand in his own and for such cold hands, they felt oddly warm.

-

Since then, John has tagged along with Sherlock in his consulting business. Most of the officers of the Yard were dazzled by John’s appearance, since he was updated to look safe yet enticing, but quickly backed away under Sherlock’s glares. Despite Inspector Lestrade and Officer Donovan’s wariness, they let John look at the crime scenes with Sherlock, let John recall his hidden war-programs and medical-officer-functions.

He and Sherlock run across London, solving crimes. He even laughs and Sherlock doesn’t tell him that sexbots shouldn’t do that unless they’re ordered too, during sex. He’s close to killing a man again ( _error, error, error, protect Sherlock_ ) but the most he does is brutally hurt him because he doesn’t want to go back to being a warbot. Not anymore and Sherlock looks at John again like he’s… like he’s… something special. Something better than the scrap-malfunctioning drone he’s become.

And John… well, none of his protocols tell him how to deal with this… this ache in his wires. He thinks this must be what heartache feels like but how can he feel heartache if he’s just electric impulses and metal? He wants Sherlock to keep being Sherlock. He wants to tape every mouth that insults Sherlock shut.

Sherlock Holmes used to be human once, they whisper in Scotland Yard, before he died chasing the serial suicide killer and then his freaky brother copied Sherlock’s consciousness into the nearest robot, a sexbot, and Sherlock has been more inhuman ever since.

Sherlock’s right, John thinks. Humans can be so unobservant if they can’t read the emotions in those electric blue eyes.

-

The sex issue is inconvenient. Mycroft Holmes sends sexual fluids for them to drink so they don’t have to search for human partners in order to function properly but John finds the taste… repulsive ( _lies,_ humans would say, _you can’t taste!_ ) He never says anything to Sherlock who always refuses to drink said ‘fuel’ until the last minute but Sherlock complains enough for the two of them. John never tries to force Sherlock to drink ‘fuel’ even if Sherlock needs it to function. He’ll remind him, sure, but he will _never_ force Sherlock to drink it. The thought seems ( _does not compute_ ) not-right.

Mycroft stops by quite often with his bodyguards and Anthea to try and lecture Sherlock to take his daily fuel. Usually Mycroft will glare at John during these lectures as if it is John’s function to be Sherlock’s caretaker. While John does perform functions similar to caretaker, (he makes sure Sherlock gets dressed, gives him maintenance checks and takes bullets for him) his lips have the urge to scowl as if this is all that Mycroft thinks of him.

Sherlock never wastes in any time pushing Mycroft and his goons out of 221B. He usually gases the room with laughing gas and smirks as the giggling agents and Mycroft have to stumble out of the flat to breathe. John should probably protest at possible danger to humans but he knows the gas is harmless to them and can’t help but laugh too, even if the gas does not affect him.

“Probably shouldn’t do that next time,” John says, just to pretend he’s obeying his protocols.

“You know I won’t,” Sherlock preens, as if John has told him that he’s brilliant again, and in a way, John has.

It just seems natural, one day, for Sherlock to suggest that he and John engage in intercourse. Call it an incentive in their programming but for some reason, sexual fluids taste more tolerable when engaged in sexual activities. While John has never thought Sherlock cared about the taste of such things, John thinks Sherlock must be frustrated with being forced to drink ‘fuel’ every 48 hours. This is another act of rebellion against Mycroft. A way to show that Sherlock isn’t human and show how he revels in not being an ordinary robot either.

“We should have sex,” Sherlock says, probably delighting in the blunt and crude phrase, thinking of how purple Mycroft will turn at the words.

John watches Sherlock then, how Sherlock’s eyes glow with an odd light that’s almost human. Organic. And despite the protesting voices in his programming, he says yes.

Their ‘fuel’ still tastes terrible. But at least it’s not bland anymore. And for the first time after sexual activities, John’s skin seems to sing when Sherlock just holds him in the bed. Doing nothing else. Just cuddling, as humans would say.

But John thinks that this ‘cuddling’ is far better than anything he’s been programmed to do before.

-

“That Watson model…” John hears Mycroft say from downstairs once, “…you should really consider donating him to the recycling heap, brother.”

There is a dull thud that echoes within John as he looks at his worn hands. Yes. Of course. That’s logical. He’s only lasted for so long. Who knows how many years he will have left before Sherlock will have to start paying for replacement parts? A new robot would be much cheaper than a new arm for a shoddy 1999 Watson model. He should leave some files behind for the new robot to process, files on how to get Sherlock to drink fuel, on calming episodes, on the violin, on—

“Did you leave your brain at work, Mycroft?”

John stills.

“… _Sherlock_ ,” Mycroft responds in a tone that is 57% repressed annoyance and 13% concern. The other 30% is always indecipherable to John.

“John stays. End of story. And you don’t. Now get out before I decide to test out this rather interesting antique pistol I acquired from one of my cases. From my understanding, the bullets create a unique blood splatter pattern and I would _love_ to test that theory—”

The door clunks open, a few micro-decibels louder then usual.

“Seems we can’t reprogram human brains yet,” Mycroft says, “such a shame. I could do without the temper tantrums.”

John moves before he knows what he’s doing. The pistol clicks. A bullet. John. Hands. But—

Sherlock glares at Mycroft who hovers over John’s shoulder, at the gaping hole in the middle of the doorway’s arch and at John’s wide eyes. If John adjusts his lens, he can see sweat trailing down Mycroft’s brow.

“Sherlock is fine the way he is, thanks,” John manages, before he shuts the door in Mycroft’s face.

No sooner does the door click shut when Sherlock’s arms are all over John, a flurry of limbs and sharp fingers, pawing over every inch of John’s face, John’s arms and legs.

“ _Are you alright_ ,” Sherlock demands, those flashing eyes wild as fire and lightning coming to war. And John can’t answer, can’t look away, because they’re so _bright_. “Answer me, John,” he repeats again, illogically, because Sherlock saw where the bullet went, so why—

“Are you _alright?!_ ”

“Um. Yes. Systems seem—” _functional_ , he doesn’t finish, as Sherlock drags John into his arms, his lap, saying that John shouldn’t bother protecting filth like Mycroft, that John’s job is to stay with _him_ and John… well…

 _It doesn’t matter if I break_ , he decides, leaning into Sherlock’s touch. _I’ll stay._

-

The average warranty on a Watson model is precisely two years. The ACD Corporation will happily replace your model for free in any damages due to outside military warfare (see the list below: shrapnel, lasers, sharp blades, machine gun fire—) However, as the Watson model is an experimental warbot, all restrictions apply after the warranty expires and any damages are payable to the user…

-

There was a man once. John remembers him. Sergeant Bill Emilio Murray. Serial number BAK47 ER82. A medic. A… kind human.

Other humans in the army ignored John once they realized he wasn’t organic. Other humans treated him like a stationary vehicle or an electric pole or a dog but Bill just clapped John on the shoulder and said ‘good job, man,’ even when John protested at the incorrect label and John couldn’t understand why Bill persisted in such incorrect behavior.

“Hey, Watson model, do you have a name?” Bill asked once, avoiding John’s questions.

“As a model owned by the British government, I am assigned a serial number for military purposes and a barcode for factory ones. I’ve had no human names assigned to me, most likely because it would be impractical to name a warbot,” John used to speak like this, often, in the barracks.

Bill had frowned then. “Well, that’s a shame. It’s kind of a mouthful to keep calling you ‘Watson model’ all the time… and ‘Watson’ is a generic brand name now… How about ‘John’? It’s a bit plain, but I think it suits you. There are a lot of great guys named John.”

His processors had been unable to calculate _why_ Bill (why humans) needed to name him.

“John is a generic name as well,” he’d said instead.

“Well _I_ like it,” Bill clapped his shoulder again.

“A name is just a series of random sounds. Anything could be a name. An explosion could be. Or gunfire.”

“Aw, come on! Can you imagine humans being able to pronounce gunfire noises? I mean, I’m sure some beatboxers could, but it’d be _hard_. Come on, choose ‘John’, there’s a sci fi hero named John!”

“I’m going to leave for daily maintenance now. Good day, Sergeant Murray.”

“Call me Bill!” came the echoing holler.

He never did. Bill died in active duty, saving two soldiers in his platoon.

John kept his name.

(It was an order, wasn’t it?)

-

People are burning. ( _Target has been neutralized, Watson model return to home base_.) Their screams crinkle up into clawed whispers, like ashy air trying to unscrew his hearing processors. Their imprints linger in the air waves but on frequencies most organics can’t hear. Humans are blessed this way. ( _Target has been neutralized, Watson model. Repeat. Return. To. Base._ ) Someone called for her mother, a cup of tea but they’ll never get it because ( _error: it was an order. His hands shake. Error: it was an order. How can an order by an error, error errrrrr_ —)

“John!”

Sherlock’s nose is so close that John wonders what it would be like to have lungs to breathe in the same breaths.

“John, are you listening?”

Right. John lets his eyelids close over his lens. Clean the glass. Reprocess his memory. He’s at Scotland Yard. There was another bombing. Someone’s been sending notes. Sherlock looks like it’s Christmas.

That dull echo again, the strain of rusted metal rubbing together, echoing and echoing throughout all his limbs and joints. Just a glitch. Just a glitch…

“Yes, um, that seems, um…” he can’t look away from the screen. From the fire grasping out the windows for more air. From the screams that escape from its hungry warmth. How many lives gone? How much potential programming?

“Never mind,” Sherlock shoves past him, ranting on about the next clue, the next pip and he’s _always like that_. Why can’t he see? Why doesn’t he realize how precious human life is? How lucky and fragile, just like him, while John has to watch as they, as they—

“Don’t you care?” the accusation slips past John’s mouth before he can contain the glitch.

( _Error: iT wAs An—_ )

Everyone stops. Donovan looks half horrified and half impressed while Anderson seems angry and surprised (why he doesn’t just admit he admires Sherlock, John will never understand.) Lestrade, too, nearly drops his pen while Sherlock’s eyes narrow at John, a cold electric blue.

“I’m sorry,” Sherlock’s chilly voice slithers into the electric impulses of John’s core processor, “will _caring now_ help them? Will _caring_ stimulate more efficient deductions?”

( _Error-- people are burning and instead of the scent of air, John smells ash and meat and blood and—it WaS aN oRDerrrrrrrrrrr….!!!_)

“No,” John swallows, “but it could stop you from overlooking the important details—”

“Like _what_ , _saint_ Watson?”

John’s joints itch and strain with cold, like they’ve been dipped in cold water. ( _Error error errorrerererer. Unplug, unplug that Watson NOW!_ )

But Sherlock continues. Sherlock sees everything ( _error error errrrrrrr_ ), he has to, for the case, so, “I don’t need a faulty Watson telling me how to solve my cases when I’ve been efficient without _caring_ for years! If you’re going to distract me with silly questions then _get out!_ ”

John doesn’t—he can’t—wait—

“That’s an _order!_ ”

His feet move.

-

He’s had owners before. Some of them wanted him to eliminate the targets and move on. He did that. He was good at his job. He never disobeyed until— _choose John—_ until— _a child’s face stares back at him from the ash and gunk—_ until they had to scrap him away. And then— _hello Watson model. I hear you’re called John? Good name, easy to say in bed_ —then— _moan for me a bit more prettily, pet, yes, that’s it, oh, oh_ —then— _do you love me? Tell me you love me! Say it again, no, not like that, say it like you mean it!—_ then— _why are you looking at me like that, you filthy metal whore, why—_

He wasn’t good at that job.

_This trash, take it back! Melt it! Burn it! Just use its scraps for something useful!_

Maybe he shouldn’t have taken Sherlock’s hand at the repair center after all. All he can see are old fragments of data, looping over and over. His glitches ache and groan all over for John to go back, to ask Sherlock for another chance but he keeps walking because of the _order_ and because he doesn’t think that he—

Think? No. No. He shouldn’t _think_. That only leads to another owner. And another. And another and he _doesn’t want another!_ He’s so… so… (tired? Is that the word? Is he allowed to be tired now?)

“I wanted to be your version of John, Bill,” he realizes, the echoes of Bill’s voice still breathing in his circuits. “I’m sorry I can’t.”

( _Get out_ )

He can’t even be Sherlock’s.

-

If only he had not turned around.

If only he had heard Moriarty’s men behind him.

-

**Welcome to your Watson Model 1999, version 2.0: designation sexbot. Would you like to reboot? Y/N**

___Y

**Are you sure? Y/N**

___Y

**Thank you. Your Watson Model 1999 will reboot shortly. Please insert recovery disc.**

-

His owner looks at him with a pleased smile. This is agreeable. This means that he has complied with his owner’s wishes. He has done a good job.

“Yes, you have,” Owner replies, clapping slowly. “You might even give my Moran Model a run for his money! Now come along, pet, I’ve got a date at a pool to get to.”

A date. His processors run that word through his files. Another target to eliminate.

“Very well.”

He follows.

-

Owner talks for a while until the code, “…my pet will come to take care of you,” buzzes within his main computer system, whirling as dissonantly as an off key piano. But that does not matter. Owner has a mission for him and he will complete it. Then the noise will go away.

There is a large pool in the middle of the room. Two exits on the floor and several exits from the railings on the upper balcony if one was to jump off the roof (unlikely, any human who attempted that would damage their body). Owner stands near one end of the pool, facing off against the presumed target.

He lets his hand change into a gun, points and before he can shoot, he hears the target whisper, “… _John…”_

Owner starts to laugh and he stops. What is amusing? Perhaps the target is delusional. He does not see anyone named ‘John’ in the vicinity though Owner’s name could be considered a derivation of the name ‘John.’ Unlikely. The target seems to be staring at _him_ instead of Owner but— _irrelevant, eliminate target—_ why…?

“No, no, no, no, no… you can’t have…” the target half stumbles back and then forward (why?) while Owner only laughs and laughs.

“But I _did_. It was easy, after you ordered him away.”

He should shoot now, he tells his hands. The electric pulses travel to his fingers. He can feel the electricity by the trigger, urging to shoot but the gun shakes. He does not understand. He keeps looking at the target. He wonders who John is.

“No, _no_ ,” the target’s face darkens (danger) and he storms forward, grabs him by the shoulders and shouts, “John, _John_ , you stupid idiot, it’s me! _Sherlock Holmes_. _I_ am your owner, _not him!_ ”

“Negative,” he responds. “I am registered to James Moriarty as a war—”

“ _NO!_ ”

Lips jam against his and he frowns as humans do. Why is the target attempting human mating rituals with him? For what purpose? He is not a sexbot or a romantic escort model. He is not attractive (or useful) in that way.

He pushes the target away. Points the trigger.

“Yes,” Owner smiles while the buzzing in his head grows louder, “finish the job, pet. Mind you don’t kill him too badly. I might need him later.”

The target is shaking, pulling out a weapon, ready to aim at Owner but he can’t let that happen. He needs to shoot, he _needs to shoot, he needs to—_

A gun shoots.

The Watson model falls into a pool while the target screams _John, John,_ and Owner’s shoulders shake with laughter.

He closes his eyes. _Thank god_ , says the ghost of a glitch. Neither of them are hurt. He smiles.

Water swallows him.

-

_Please god, let him live._

That’s silly Sherlock, how can robots live?

-

“…might be best to clear his memory again—”

“ _No_ ,” says a voice.

 _That_ voice. Must be the target. The Watson model feels the buzzing grow louder. He should have eliminated the target. He failed. He tries to move his arms so he can complete the mission but he finds that they do not respond.

“Don’t you dare touch his memory banks. You could risk overwriting his previous memories—”

“—they don’t exist, for god’s sake! Mycroft, tell your crazy brother how robotics actually works because he’s just wasting my time—”

“ _No one is touching John!_ ”

Silence. Even the buzzing in the Watson Model’s head stops.

“…John will remember,” the target hisses. “I know he will. And if he doesn’t, then I _know_ he wouldn’t want anyone touching his programming again. Moriarty might have _rewritten_ him but _John_ is mine. I know he’ll come back to me.”

No one tries to correct the target.

-

That target is a human downloaded into a sexbot unit (likely because sexbots resemble humans the most). An odd contradiction of organic and inorganic. Always insisting that the Watson model refer to him as Sherlock. But the Watson model refuses to respond.

The target is not his Owner. He wants to know if Owner is alright.

“Moriarty _left you_ to die! _I_ brought you here. _I_ fixed you!”

“Why?” the words slip out before the Watson Model can stop them. “I’m ordered to eliminate you. It’s illogical to keep me functional.”

 _I can’t finish any orders,_ he does not let his glitches say.

For a moment, the target does not speak. But then he brings a hand up to the Watson Model’s cheek, as if to touch him again, and the Watson Model leans back. Frowns.

The target takes his hand away.

“You have had at least thirty-eight opportunities to kill me in the last week. But you haven’t. _Why_.”

“I…” he runs his memory banks. His Owner. The pool. The trigger. The Target and the—the—

_Blood—a child’s glassy eyes—Bill “Call Me John”—why won’t you look at me—send him back—defective—how much to purchase his freedom?—blue eyes—fuel, why don’t you drink your fuel—sex is routine, always routine but necessary—blue—touch—get out—get. Out.—That’s an OrDErrrrrrrrrrrrrr—_

“I am restrained,” he says instead, even though Sherlock’s eyes seem to slice into his data banks.

Sherlock storms out and only when the door shuts, does John let his eyes close and he wonders if this is why humans cry. All those electric impulses, rushing back and forth in their brains (their data processors), wreaking fire and ruin in their minds. How else can they relieve their pain?

-

John does not speak for three days.

-

“Why are you doing this?!” Sherlock shouts, just as John predicted he would. “I know you must remember _something_. Or are you trying to punish me? For not being your _Owner?_ You can’t reject fuel anymore, your programming may have reverted to warbot but your hardware is still that of a sexbot so _drink_.”

John closes his eyes. It will be over soon.

Another crash. Probably a wrench that Sherlock has thrown at another window. As long as Sherlock doesn’t hurt himself, John won’t interfere. John will be obsolete soon.

Except, he hears—

“…I’m sorry.”

If John had a heart, it would stop. Right now.

“I shouldn’t have… I shouldn’t have told you to get out,” Sherlock says quietly. “I was… as you say, an idiot. I didn’t… I _don’t have any friends_. But… I only have one. And now, I don’t even have you anymore, do I? My conductor of light. _John_ …”

“ _Don’t be an idiot_ ,” John chokes out and _why, oh why,_ is he speaking now when he’s going to shut down at any moment? “It’s not your fault. It’s _mine_. I shouldn’t have… shouldn’t have pushed. I just... I’m obsolete. I can’t function properly. I can’t kill,” _he doesn’t want to_ , “I can’t have sex,” _he doesn’t **want** to, _“I can’t even make you happy.” _But he wants to._

His eyelids are burning. Tears would be so useful at the moment.

“I’m a broken robot. You… you can’t want me.”

He’s so tired now. He’s allowed to be tired, right? His fuel is running on empty. He shut down many of his automatic systems earlier.

But hard hands pull him off the table towards Sherlock’s furious eyes. “Now listen carefully, John, because I will only say this once. I _love_ you. And you are _not_ going to shut down here. You are the _most_ human thing on this planet, inorganic parts be damned, and I don’t care if you don’t function properly. Look at me, I barely function as a human!”

“But—” _you do_ , John means to say, except Sherlock throws his arms around him.

“Feel this heat here?” Sherlock whispers.

Eyelids burning, John nods.

“Human brains are nothing more than neurons firing electric signals. What is artificial intelligence without electric impulses? Nothing. Just cold metal. You and I… we’re comprised of electric signals, as alive as anything.”

John wonders if all this heat in this throat is what humans call ‘having their mouth go dry’ because he can’t stop looking at Sherlock, looking at Sherlock and thinking—

“You must be human after all.”

Sherlock stares at him incredulously. Probably the appropriate reaction when being interrupted after a heartfelt confession.

John can’t help but laugh a little and feel not-tears stinging his lens.

“You just wrote poetry.”

Sherlock silences him with kisses to cool his eyes, his lips and his nose.

-

They live.


End file.
